


Taking Care of Things

by softcorevulcan



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Anxiety, Crush, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Gentleman, M/M, Perfectionism, Pre-Slash, Season 2, Slash, Slice of Life, Wesley is bi, hints at Wesley's Childhood, mentions of one sided Wesley/Angel, mentions of one sided Wesley/Lorne, mentions of past Wesley/Cordelia, pining!Wesley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcorevulcan/pseuds/softcorevulcan
Summary: Wesley isn't usually attracted to the kind of men that take care of things. Usually, that's what Wesley does.Or, Wesley has a crush and isn't sure what to do about it. Finally, he just does something. Then his feelings catch up to him.





	Taking Care of Things

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place some time in season 2. When Cordelia, Wesley, Angel, and Gunn make up the main team. There’s a reference to Wesley’s season 5 monologue to Illyria, about life, in here somewhere. Mainly this is an exploration of anxiety related to abandonment, and Wesley as a character. And Wesley and Gunn cause, I really love their dynamic.

Wesley didn’t really know how to… handle it.

He was used to being the one who opened the doors, who quickly set things in their places and got out the dishes and utensils for others. Who made the first move to call. The gentlemanly things to do.

It wasn’t even, just that, exactly. It had been that way for what seemed like forever, now. At his family home, in England, making sure everything was prepared for and ready for when his father might have made to demand something, because Wesley might otherwise miss the hints that an order is coming. Might slip up, make some mistake, forget something behind, or inconvenience -

It had been that way in school. He had to be the best, it was paramount. More, it was simply expected. And Wesley had to live up to what was required of him. Otherwise -

It had just been. He had always taken charge, ridiculous or no, confident or no, and just forced himself to spend more time preparing for the next time, on the rare instances he fumbled something up. Eventually he’d been the most qualified person around - perhaps gratingly, to his peers, perhaps not the most personable among them - and he’d always taken the lead on getting things done. Faith and Buffy giving him a hard time, had just been more of the same, more or less. The thing that had made them stand out, had been that he’d failed to remedy the situation.

He’d failed utterly.

Then Wesley had failed some more, alone, embarrassing himself, and it had been fine because after a while he stopped caring that he did so much. Because no one who’d ever know him would see those errors and fumbles. He probably wouldn’t have minded dying, too much, in those days. Rationally, well of course he would have avoided the pain and the finality such a threat posed. But as for the consequences? He had been of little use to anyone. Useless, to the people and the causes that did matter.

Then Wesley had met Angel. And kept right on fumbling it up.

But the mission gave him the drive to start caring that he did, again. The anxiety came back. The critical need to get everything perfect, because there really were things riding on him again - terribly important things. The need to always prepare, to correctly do the preparing.

Wesley found himself fumbling, less and less these days. In contradiction to the pressure. Perhaps, he thinks, it is because Angel and Cordelia forgive him when he does.

Make a mistake.

They forgive it and move past it, and compensate so that everything still works out, goes fine - and even when they laugh, it's nothing like the academy. Nothing like his -

It’s well meaning. It’s kind. And because of all that - the mitigation of disaster, the lack of blame - he’s found himself surprisingly more capable as of late. More so, over time. Much more like when he was allowed to work on his own, as a watcher, before being tasked with the highly-focused job of training slayers. He’d been rather competent, then. No slip ups. No set backs. Solid research, extensive contributions. Wesley had even apprehended several individuals that had gone rogue from the council, in the field. It hadn’t been vampires, of course - he’d only handled them in cages, controlled circumstances, at that point - but his aim had been perfect, disarming men that no longer had the right to possess council materials. Apprehending them, tasking the teams he’d led, cleaning up the fallout. That work had gone so smoothly.

Like the night Angel had been taken hostage and forced as a gladiator to fight other demons, for some fools idea of entertainment. It had been no trouble, no challenge, for Wesley to obtain the information, the results, he’d wanted. On that job. The only regret had been that it took so long. But jobs always took too long. The fact they existed at all, meant for someone, the condition was already unacceptable.

Gunn called him over - Gunn was the one always calling. Oh, Wesley called them into the office, or asked Cordelia too if he was too deep into a book. Wesley told them which demon or whatever it is they were pursuing. Wesley suggested the appropriate tools, went to get the weapons from the cabinet for them - but Gunn would get there first, his preferred choice already in those strong hands of his, and already be handing out what Wesley sufficiently approved of for the task, to the others.

No, Gunn would call him after the job. Ask Wesley how he was, how he was doing. Ask if Wesley had called Cordelia yet, had checked up on her - ask if Wesley would like Gunn to.

Gunn would call, when there wasn’t a job yet. His voice on the line, already growing more familiar than many other voices Wesley had dealt with in his life, at all hours. In the morning, a little after the alarm, when Wesley lied there debating whether or not to eat. “Hey, English, you want me to come in early? Need some extra help today with something?”

“I hadn’t - had anything in particular in mind. At this particular moment. But I -”

“Well, if there’s anything you need, you know, I’m happy to -”

“But I’m sure there’s enough things that need doing, if you’d like to come in with me,” Wesley would finish, trying to complete his initial thoughts.

“Cool, I’ll be right over.” And Gunn would be hanging up, probably already driving over in that beast of a truck of his, maybe already intent on picking Wesley up regardless of what the conversation had been.

 

\---

 

In the evening, pushing toward midnight, Wesley would be returning to his apartment - finally, exhausted and dirty and ready to collapse into his bed and pretend there wasn’t more work like this waiting for him imminently - and his phone would pick up, maybe 20 minutes in. Right after Wesley would have convinced himself to draw up the energy to just make himself shower. In the middle of finishing with washing his hair, Wesley would find himself rushing to get off what of the dirt he quickly could - the mud and demon remains that was hesitant to come off - and scrambling to the phone. To Gunn.

“Hey, you exhausted too?”

“Obviously, I -”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. You eat a good meal in a while, Wesley?”

“I - well, no, not exactly. It’s not as if we’ve had time in the last -”

“I’m coming over. Ordering pizza. I already, uh, picked up some food at the store on the way home. I was starved.”

“Coming -”

“You even _have_ anything in the fridge, Wes?”

At that, Wesley did drag his sopping body, hastily wrapped in a towel, to the fridge. Despite Gunn’s habit of cutting him off in the middle of his words, he’d stayed silent, waiting.

There had been an almost empty jug of milk - probably gone bad - and a handful of eggs. Some pickles. The end of a loaf of bread, that Wesley was glad he left in the fridge as well, otherwise it might have gone off as well. Some condiments. A few pathetic carrots that Wesley probably wouldn’t eat.

“Well. I. I suppose I wouldn’t be adverse to you bringing something over.”

“Good thing some of the stuff I got has vegetables in it, damn Wes.”

Without even speaking, it was like Gunn could hear the silent wonder in Wesley’s pause.

“Vegetable lo mein, from that place you and Cordy like. And there’s some just, like, regular pineapples. I got a can.”

“Why??”

“Bought us something for mixed drinks. I _know_ you’ve never tried what I plan on making, but you’re gonna like it.”

Then Gunn was hanging up, and Wesley was scrambling to dry himself enough to pull on clothes.

 

\---

 

Gunn was so -

Wesley remembered first meeting the man. Remembered how Gunn said he’d seen them in bed last night. And Wesley and Cordy both looking scandalized, both insistent they hadn’t been the one to sleep with him, that there’d been no hookup - none that they knew about, at any rate. And Gunn laughing - he really had quite a warm, intoxicating sort of laugh. The kind that dragged in everyone else around them, like sunshine beating down, lightening the mood of the room.

And the room had certainly needed it, at the time. Gunn had seen them both in the hospital. That’s why they’d been in bed.

With Gunn around, even though most of their work was at night, things never really felt that bleak. For not getting to go outside in the day as much as maybe some other job, other lifestyle, it always felt like a sunny afternoon with Gunn.

Gunn was always taking care of things, before Wesley got around to them. Before Wesley even thought of them needing doing.

 

\---

 

Wesley didn’t know how to take Gunn coming over, with enough food to keep Wesley fed for a week, and enough drinks to entertain. When Gunn reached for the plates almost at the same time, took them from his hands as Wesley shuffled, unsure and a little sluggish and in part a bit relieved Gunn had it handled for him. The way Gunn made to move their plates out to them - probably would have brought them over, if Wesley would have just sat on the couch like Gunn had told him to - and met Wesley in the doorway, smiling like sunshine and making Wesley forget how sheepish he’d felt.

The way Gunn couldn’t leave it at that, either. How when, after Gunn set his plate down on the coffee table, and Wesley had moved to properly curl up on the couch, setting down his own plate - Gunn had strode back to the kitchen to make them some mixed drinks that looked orange-ish red and kind of tasted like mimosas but sharper, when Wesley sipped at his later. Gunn came back, all radiant joy despite his body dragging the same tiredness around as Wesley, and made to pull the folded blanket at the foot of the couch around them, throwing it over Wesley’s lap while it was free, before Wesley leaned over to grab the glass Gunn had made him.

Gunn was so -

“I picked options,” Gunn said, smiling gloriously.

“Options?”

“Three. You get to pick.” And then he’d grabbed the remote of Wesley’s television, turned it on, and started flicking through the channels - no doubt to his targets of choice.

Gunn took care of things. Wesley had never really been prepared, for someone to take care of him.

 

\---

 

Maybe all of this was because of how Gunn first met - first saw - them. Maybe after that, it was all Gunn could help doing. Just, try to help them all handle things, because he had too big of a heart to fathom allowing such a terrible incident to happen again. Not when he could be there, helpful, always with something good to contribute, mitigating those kinds of things.

Maybe Wesley just wanted to find a way to justify why a man taking care of him, set his emotions off so wildly.

It wasn’t uncommon for Wesley to feel his cheeks heating, a blush spreading, around Charles Gunn.

It would’ve been impossible to avoid, really. Given how charming the man could be. How easily he’d grown on Wesley.

What was unnerving was how unfamiliar the situation was. Wesley didn’t - didn’t tend to fall into this sort of scenario.

With women, well - his type had flown all over the place. Usually settling with the relatively ‘safe’ options, if they managed to last long term - safe of course being a relative. A witch in high school, only dubious in the sense she hadn’t quite been through registering yet, although her parents were walking her through it. The daughter of a famous warlock, not quite that different, despite the locale changing to LA. The starkest difference had been the notoriety. Had been how much more Virginia had cared about him… So much more than anyone in England had.

The shorter affairs, somehow had been both more and less predictable. The variance in type had swung marvelously. The actual dynamics, not so much. Some colleague at the council - whom he barely knew, who thankfully was to return to another country soon after their affair, so they didn’t have to converse with the same coworkers. A sweet stranger, who had fancied him - abandoning her night of fawning over a local band to smile at him, and let him take her home. He’d been on work - rather, a job had been recently finished, and so he hadn’t been near the office. So he’d indulged her, and then been rather wistful to have to cut it off.

But people had been injured, involved, in some cases apprehended. He could not have ties to the locale that would come back to him. So she hadn’t even known his real name.

A handful of blondes in Los Angeles, there were always more. Each one he met was rather different. But they never called him back. Or he never called them. No need, really. There was never a spark.

Nothing had gone on in Sunnydale, safe for things he’d like to forget.

And anyway, he considered Cordelia more of a long term affair - even though it hadn’t turned out romantic. She was as long term as anything, in his life, one of the longest terms. She was family. More family than probably anyone, at this point. Not safe, then, either. Not someone his blood family would have perhaps tolerated.

No. Cordelia and Angel weren’t the selections his relatives would have condoned. A girl with visions, who wasn’t a slayer, who should not be involved, who perhaps they might lock in a controlled environment - treat like how maybe, any nefarious organization might treat an opportune resource. They would’ve approved testing her, prodding the limits of her usefulness - not that they’d want him anywhere near it, failure as he was, in their eyes. But, that’s what they might have done. If they’d known of Cordelia.

And Angel - Wesley doesn’t let his mind wander there.

Gunn was unnerving because he was most certainly not Wesley’s usual type in men.

Not that Wesley dwelled on that aspect of himself, much. But when he had found himself, on the precipice of engaging with a man, it hadn’t been anyone like Charles.

In bars, with strangers, it had been people who let Wesley insist on what to do. How to do it. Following his lead. No matter how macho or absolutely hesitant - Wesley found that if he simply walked up, initiated, complemented them brightly - things worked out. If they were going to work out.

Wesley had first gone to Caritas, half for that reason. The other half had been, of course, that he’d heard the rumors. That demons frequented there, and nobody fought. Wesley doesn’t hesitate to admit to himself, that when he first saw the man responsible for it all, talking to someone, Wesley did consider the idea. Of if the idea of Wesley and him could lead somewhere.

But it didn’t. Wesley had decided pursuing a demon wasn’t the most practical, or comfortable, course. Wesley could barely pursue a human, he’d have been out of his depth, fathoms past it, trying to figure out where he was going with it or how much he even wanted it. There’d have been too much baggage, and training, and things he’d used to believe actively contradicting themselves.

And it wasn’t as if he’d even been attracted to the demon, necessarily. Wesley had just been so impressed with him. Impressed with his charisma, his establishment, the broad beautiful vision he’d managed to implement with it. Jealous of the bartenders that probably got to admire it and help with the work close up. That they got to talk to the Host regularly, and maybe ask about it.

It was more that he appreciated the Host's leadership, than anything. A very different operational style than Wesley, but it worked. And its results were extraordinary.

Wesley might have been more attracted to the pretty bartenders. One dark haired woman, in particular - but Wesley was always too nervous to talk to her, she spoke sharp and on the nose the sort of way Cordelia did. Another, a man who stood shorter than Wesley, with very pretty eyes, that always stayed to listen sympathetically when Wesley came, with no additional need to belt out his destiny and get it read, just to do the usual sorrow drinking. Wesley had considered giving the man his number, a fair few times. But the idea of word getting back to the owner, always kept him from acting.

Not that it mattered. It didn’t. It’s just -

It’s just he hadn’t cared enough. With most people, it just never turned out. He just never felt the need to push what wasn’t there.

With most of the men Wesley had gotten anywhere with, it hadn’t even been that particular individual he’d wanted. He hadn’t known what he’d wanted. Wesley had just picked them, because although no one was safe, any possible rejection or fallout wouldn’t have mattered. What did it matter if a man at a bar in Nevada jerked him off sloppy, not knowing what to do, and Wesley kissed eagerly to make the most out of it, and then the guy got nervous just as Wesley opened the man’s fly to pay him back in kind. What did it matter if the man shoved him, not really hard, just sudden, just nervous, and rushed off. He didn’t matter.

If somebody in London let him take them home, and left curtly in the morning. No hello, no goodbye. Just dressing perfunctorily, the shadow mirror of Wesley as he went about the same, leaving like they’d never met in the first place. Seeing them at work, the next day, before they headed on some trip. Not caring to remember what their body looked like. Not caring to wonder, longingly, if they’d have been strong enough to hold Wesley down and give him what he wanted.

They didn’t. Give him what he wanted.

He wouldn’t have let them anyway.

That requires trust. And Wesley has so precious little of it.

Gunn makes him want to trust, all the time, and it’s this odd nerve-wracking sizzle under his skin when Wesley notices just how desperately he hopes for it. Surge of warmth in his cheeks, subtle buzzing in his ears like it's hard to concentrate, when Gunn’s hand breezes over his. When Gunn reaches over and pats his arm, or his shoulder, or his thigh, over the blankets.

How Wesley forgets how to speak, for moments, until he darts his eyes away to the ground or a cabinet, when Gunn greets him with a one armed hug some days when Wesley gets into the office.

Wesley wants to trust him with anything. With everything.

Wants to run away and hide so he doesn’t feel his skin prickle and his heart pound ecstatically when he thinks Gunn might come into the office that day, or stop by his home.

Wesley also, desperately, wants to re-establish his own norms. He wants to get Gunn to trust him, so there’s some kind of better balance, so at least Wesley isn’t unfairly disadvantaged. But when he goes to do something, anything, to take care of Gunn back - it’s like Gunn’s already thought of all of that and more, and then he’s one upping Wesley, and then -

And one night Gunn is falling asleep, in Wesley’s house, on Wesley’s couch, leaning against him. The picture of exhaustion, finally seeping in as the dominating impression now that Gunn’s handsome face is no longer animated by the energy it always exudes. And Wesley can’t help but let the man drift until he’s half on Wesley’s body. Can’t help but pull his arms up and hold him, protective. Pleased.

Completely overjoyed in the moment, irrationally. Because it’s nothing. It’s just Gunn, asleep. It’s just the two of them, hanging out like always. Because Gunn is always pushing, and always taking control before Wesley realizes they’re racing there, and he’s put himself where Wesley always wanted him without Wesley even asking.

Wesley never even had to initiate it. There was no struggle to suck up the courage to ask how Gunn is, or what he’s up to, or if he’d like to do something together. No horrible anticipation of how to say it, how it might be received - if Wesley should try for overly flirtatious and make a fool of himself at the price of at least being obvious, at least not being misunderstood, hopefully. There is no lingering dread, that perhaps he said it too perfunctorily, and Gunn thinks he’s stuffy -

Because Wesley already knows, he does - because Gunn said it. Because Charles Gunn doesn’t wait for Wesley to ask, doesn’t make him nervously ponder for days on end that he’s made a mistake.

Maybe Gunn is exactly Wesley’s type. Just like Cordelia - straightforward. Maybe even more so, when it comes to this. So blatantly obvious in what he’s thinking, what he’s asking and guessing Wesley might like to ask, and to what his feelings about it are - that Wesley doesn’t have to live life wondering.

Certainly, there are things Wesley can’t figure out about the man. For all his assertiveness, Wesley rarely hears Gunn voice the things that really matter to him. Not the actual thing, anyway. Maybe some circumstance surrounding them, but Gunn isn’t the type to say he’s been crying over something. Or breaking about a friend.

Gunn has a lot of personal things, that he keeps to himself. Sadness about his sister. Worry about his friends. Fear about what happens, when he can’t stop disaster, because no one can stop everything.

And in that way, he’s a lot like Angel. Again, not so surprising actually, that Gunn is Wesley’s type.

Wesley supposes, if he ever tried dating a man - not just to use them, or to play it safe and experiment with the idea while leaving feelings aside - he certainly knows what his heart would pick. What kind of person his lust and foolish crushing would choose. Someone with strong hands, who could handle themselves in a fight - so that Wesley wouldn’t be the only one. Someone who cares about their friends, who’s compassionate, who wants to do the right thing - even if the right thing isn’t what they might have done in the past.

It’s the choice that got him out of the council. It’s the right choice, and one he’s ashamed he didn’t realize he should have made sooner. Angel’s been making choices like that, for a long time. If Wesley could learn to be better, from anyone -

And Gunn’s proven himself, as much as Wesley. Both of them grew up on the mantra, the golden unbreakable rule - you don’t work with vampires, you kill them. But here they were. Because working with Angel was the best choice for doing some good, right now. Maybe even the best choice, for their circumstances personally.

Gunn certainly has the personal strength to make the choices that many of Wesley’s colleagues, old peers, relatives, role models… none would have even contemplated. Wesley wouldn’t even have contemplated, if he hadn’t already been broken and rather worn down and at the point of finally self reflecting.

Maybe, maybe Gunn had been at that point too. Wesley’s never thought to ask.

He doesn’t think Gunn would talk about it.

Another thing in common with Angel, Wesley supposes. Decides he won’t be mentioning to either of them, any time soon.

He won’t, of course, be mentioning any other potential things in common either. Like how he’d like to grab them by the shoulders and press them into a wall, and kiss until he can’t breath. Like he suspects - hopes, rather deliriously - they’d be the type to press back into him, enthusiastic, until he’s the one being held. Until he’s losing himself, trying to win their affections on movement alone, and they’re proving he’s done it, dragging him with them, dragging their hands down, touching -

How it would be so much more intimate, than his usual type.

That’s what makes it so terrifying.

 

\---

 

Sometimes, Wesley just wants to say ‘to hell with it’ and make a move. Do something completely, irredeemably, stupid. Like somehow manage to call Gunn first, for once, and coax him into going out to something Wesley might pick, instead, a date -

But even when he’s - half-heartedly - tried this, Gunn has beaten him halfway there.

“Yeah, we could go out instead, someplace. Where you thinking?”

And somehow - but really, because Wesley is a huge coward - Gunn gets them past the point where Wesley could have brought up that it was intended to be a date.

Sometimes, after Gunn has joined him in something, regardless of whose idea it was, Gunn is so close. Standing side by side, their arms already touching, and it would be so easy, such a non-issue, to just hold the man’s damn hand.

Curled up on the couch, in the Hyperion, once they get the place, legs touching, even Gunn’s thigh a bit on top of his, weapons nearby, both of them just kind of leaning back and relaxing, but not tired enough to go find a proper place to sleep. It would be so easy to shift that into something more. To reach out, touch Gunn. Massage him, maybe. Just touch him. Hold him.

To lean forward, until they’re turned toward each other, and wait to see if Charles feels the same spark in the air, the same tension drawing as Wesley gets close enough to contemplate it. And Wesley could wait, glancing unhurriedly between Gunn’s curious eyes, and his soft lips, and determine when he’d like to lean in.

How overwhelming, intoxicating, it would be. Those moments where Wesley would wait. Where everything would scale down, into just the two of them.

Some part of Wesley sort of hopes, that Charles will beat him to that too. To that moment.

Because if Charles moves first, then Wesley will know that it’s safe. He will know Gunn wants this, wants this too, and that Wesley hasn’t been the only one with nerves off the charts about it.

But maybe Charles is just like him. Maybe he’s scared to trust. That’s why no matter how wholeheartedly he throws himself into these things, into saving, into taking care of everything - even though nothing, ever, can be totally prepared for -

He won’t -

 

\---

 

Wesley wants to hold him. Wants to wrap his arms around Charles until his breathing evens out, and that lovely smile finally slips off, and look into what he finds there. He wants Charles to trust him with that.

Wesley has no idea how to ask for that.

 

\---

 

One afternoon - not night, for once they had a slow day off, and Gunn wasn’t busy with other work - Wesley beats Gunn to the punch of asking the other to spend time together. So he has Gunn at his house, and they spend a rather embarrassing amount of time arguing about board games. First, because Wesley pulls out an older edition of a game he’s rather fond of, and Gunn insists it’s not one of his favorites. But then, because Gunn’s got his own opinion on which edition’s rules are the best - despite acting like he didn’t know the game, beforehand - and they get lost arguing about particulars.

In the end, Wesley understands if they don’t get to play. It would probably be better with more people. Though, maybe one day Cordelia will cave, and then force Angel to participate because she won’t be about to get roped into it alone. So it’s really a rather enjoyable few wasted hours, and he has to admit Gunn raised some fair points that he’d like to put into effect another time.

For all that Gunn seems so different, on the outside, then Wesley at first glance, they aren’t so dissimilar. It’s nice, having someone who puts up with his hobbies, his interests. Someone who absolutely never really means it, when he says something discouraging - from Gunn, it’s always just gentle teasing.

Wesley always thought, he’d only get up the nerve to do this after a job. That he would only be able to get to this point, after exhaustion, from another close call with death, and the excuse of still coming down for the adrenaline.

He never thought it would happen like this.

In the daylight, standing in his kitchen by the cluttered table, in the middle of nothing. Taking a step, and finding himself just close to Charles - because the room is small, and Charles is big, and they were standing close to begin with.

It shouldn’t feel this easy, maybe. But it does.

One moment he’s looking up at Charles, because he’s in front of him. Like always, his stomach suddenly swarmed with butterflies, body warm, dizzy - because Charles is right here. Charles’s beautiful brown eyes are right in front of him, looking at him.

And Wesley doesn’t even know if there was any of it. If there was any anticipation, or tension in the moment, or longing, or anything. Wesley isn’t sure what Charles is thinking, or might have been thinking. Or if Charles was going to steal the moment away from him again, and take lead by moving out of the way.

Because Wesley leans forward and kisses him.

Wesley brings his arms up, on autopilot, to hold onto Gunn and support him. To make him feel safe, and warm, and all those things that for too long Gunn has been giving to him, but cutting off every time Wesley tries to give it back.

Gunn’s lips aren’t stiff, aren’t frozen, and it’s enough, just that he’s kissing back. So Wesley moves them forward, until Gunn’s leaning gently against the counter. Wesley doesn’t want them to shift, to hit one of the endless objects scattered and piled on the table in the too-small kitchen, because that might drag them away from the moment. From this.

Wesley eventually feels Gunn’s hands come up, one resting on Wesley’s waist by the hem of his pants, the other wide and firm as it holds onto the middle of his back. Wesley wants to arch into it, feel held. But now’s not the time.

Gunn is in front of him, and that’s enough.

Gunn is holding onto him, and there’s a ghost there, this hint that Gunn is not really relaxed, that he’s wound up and desperate - and Wesley is all too familiar with that feeling. It’s how he imagines he’d be holding on, if he hadn’t started all this, hadn’t already moved on from it. So instead, he’s trying to be an anchor, trying to be firm as he moves one hand around Gunn’s back, supporting. He lets his other hand trail up to Gunn’s neck, his jaw, deepen the kiss.

Eventually, that hesitance in Gunn falls away. Then he’s surging forward to meet Wesley, instead of just participating, and Wesley clings to him. This is what he wanted.

This is what they both wanted.

No one’s afraid this might get ripped away. They’re too busy holding on like they belong to each other, any hesitance is gone now - Wesley finds that Gunn is pushing back, now, is dragging Wesley out toward the couch, and Wesley’s surprised to find he didn’t need Gunn to take the lead so much as he’d expected it. As soon as they’re through the doorway, Wesley makes sure he’s the one guiding. He makes sure Gunn is the first one to hit the cushions - Wesley lowering him down, careful, then adjusting Gunn’s body so it’s laying down, comfortable, sprawled out. Wesley climbs on top of Gunn, straddling him, then leaning down until their chests are touching, capturing those lips again - as Gunn’s fingers come up, tangling in his hair, knocking his glasses, trying to pull Wesley back to him.

In the middle of it all, Gunn uses one hand to try and put Wesley’s glasses off to the side, off to the table. But Wesley takes them from him, sets them aside himself. This, he’s familiar with. Being in control, taking care of things. Just this once, Gunn can let him do this again. Can stop racing him to it.

That’s why Gunn’s in his hands, under him, being kissed within an inch of his life. It’s why he’s beyond pleased Charles has let this happen, has let Wesley press his shirt up, let Wesley press kisses into his skin, rake his fingers along Gunn’s sides and ribs. The shiver in response, is beyond enticing. The way Gunn keeps muttering his name, “Wesley,” in between trying to drag Wesley back up, distracting.

Gunn is maybe, a touch stronger, and Wesley wants to be placating anyway, and so he eventually gets dragged back up to those perfect lips. Feels Gunn’s mouth eventually move, trailing Wesley’s jaw and neck. And the dizziness is back, the warm swimming feeling, and everything is too much all at once but not because he’s nervous. But just because it’s happening, it’s real, this is real.

Suddenly it feels like too much, and it’s not because of Gunn. Or maybe, it is. Wesley isn’t sure. Isn’t sure, suddenly, if he can handle the kisses against his neck, the heavy breaths, the wonderfully warm body pressing against his. It’s too real.

None of those strangers were real. Not like this. It was always expected, that they’d be gone. Leave.

Not this. This can’t end like it always does.

The warmth in his chest is mixing in all the wrong ways with new nerves setting off, the kind telling him he’ll cry if he doesn’t push it down. The hitch in his breath not just bright lust anymore, hyperventilation tracking into it, threatening. Threatening to ruin this moment. This one, good -

Gunn has shifted, and no - no - Wesley doesn’t want him to take care of - but he doesn’t want to be alone, not right now - but what’s he supposed to do, this moment is ending, isn’t -

Charles is turning them, until Wesley’s back is against the couch, framed in on the other side by Gunn’s warm chest, warm arms soothing up and down his body, gentle kisses against his cheeks and neck and shoulders, and Wesley -

It’s too much. He wants to cling to Charles until it’s all he can feel, get lost in it again. Not in this. Not in the fear. It’s not over yet. He doesn’t want it to be, not yet.

If he could just stop the twisting, stop his mind from racing to some future that hasn’t even happened yet, then at least the ending could be postponed.

As it is, it’s racing forward, and it’s a crash in Wesley’s gut, hollow and harsh, and Wesley’s burying his face against Gunn’s neck to try and hide from something that can’t be hidden from. You can’t escape your own mind. It’s always there. The -

Gunn is holding him, hugging him, and the world is spinning and awful and too sharp and jittering, but it's also solid, and stopped. Wesley wants to stay in the version that’s stopped. That is just him and Gunn, right now, no nerves, no future, no -

“Wesley.” Gunn’s voice is in his ear, warm breath against it, and it feels like the whole world’s condensed, right there. “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t say it stupidly. It isn’t patronizing, or consoling, or pitying. It’s not hesitant, or withdrawn, or any of those things Wesley expects it to contain. It’s just Gunn. It’s hot sunlight beating down on skin, light and heavy and everything he needs it to be. Gunn is just perfect, it’s just the way he is. Charles just always knows how to say things, what tone to use, what smile to shine, to put the world at ease. At least, for Wesley.

And all that shutters him anew, and he can feel himself collapsing on the inside. Betraying himself, and curling into Gunn. Viciously vulnerable, because this isn’t supposed to ever happen, not with people around. Not with someone he can’t bear to -

Wesley wishes he’d calm himself enough, to just focus. To just memorize this. Forget all the things twisting his stomach and making him shake, and pretend. Hold onto Gunn again like he’s in control, like he’s leading, like he’s the one taking care - listen to the sounds Gunn makes, hear him choke, gasp on the pleasure, until he’s overwhelmed. Wesley wishes he could open his eyes, without betraying anything underneath, and watch Gunn’s handsome face through it all. He wants to memorize it.

So that when it all falls away, he can still remember this. When it’s gone.

Gunn doesn’t understand what’s going on.

But it’s too late to press enough of it down any more, the bottle’s already broke, so to speak. Wesley tries to even out his breathing, anyway. He’s not crying, at least. That much is still held down.

It’s almost easy, natural, to shut it all off, focus on the nothing. Focus on how meaningless it all is, how he ought to just let it be. If there’s no future anyway, so many anticipated disasters where it ends - then there’s no point fighting it. No point in getting upset over the inevitable. That’s wasted energy.

Energy he could be spending, savoring this moment with Gunn. Living it. While it’s still here.

So he lets himself calm - as much as he can - and makes himself open his eyes. Wesley is sure his eyes betray more than he wants to let free. Charles looks concerned. Wesley wishes it weren’t there. Is glad most of the time, Charles hides that look before Wesley can catch it - if he ever wears that look at all, normally.

“Wes,” But Charles isn’t going to get the chance to speak, Wesley wouldn’t be able to handle that. Instead, Wesley is moving his hands, exploring, claiming, trying to pull himself back into the moment. Some part of him under the numbness, the fractured top, perking up and ridiculously happy that Gunn responds, starts moving his hands in kind. The motions are still edging on soothing, though. On Gunn trying to take care.

When Wesley moves his head, to try and capture Gunn’s lips, at least, Wesley doesn’t find any careful handling there. Gunn lets Wesley lead again, but eventually follows the example Wesley’s setting, and it lulls into something that pulls at Wesley’s attention and makes the panic start to drain away.

Then it’s just this, again, just Gunn sucking on his bottom lip, pressing into his mouth, him pressing back. Tasting his warmth, clutching desperately to Gunn’s back and shoulders, moaning when he hears little sounds of pleasure, knowing they’re both steadying each other.

Gunn isn’t totally lost, though. Eventually, he’s slowing things down, strong hands setting a tone, massaging Wesley’s back muscles, pressing him deeper into the cushions of back of the couch. Slowing their lips, so it’s languid, like forever - and Wesley’s too drained to turn it back into anything else.

Wesley isn’t sure how long they stay like that. With Gunn making them kiss slow, hands moving through his hair, slow and steady, Wesley clutching onto Gunn’s back and just trying to memorize the muscles, how they feel against him.

He doesn’t let his mind wander, too much, into what might happen after.  

 

\---

 

Gunn is still there, in the morning. He stays there the whole night.

There’s an uncomfortable part, where they get up, because Gunn won’t really let things escalate to something more, and Wesley’s kind of insistently groping, and Gunn smiles - that perfect, brilliant, smile of his - and pushes into Wesley until he’s just stuck there, and kisses into him feverently.

Wesley forgets all about the groping, he’s too lost in what Gunn’s lips are doing to pay attention to the man’s hands. Eventually, when Charles does relent, Wesley finds that he’s too exhausted to make any more decisions about where things might lead.

His panic had really sapped him, earlier. He wished Gunn didn’t know that. But Gunn was - taking care of things, like always - and so he must’ve. He must have some idea, because he was taking the lead, and getting up to use the bathroom - and god Wesley missed his hands, missed being close to him already. It was desperate, and infuriating.

And more infuriating, quietly, in the space of his insides that had been lulled into such content in the kissing, was that when Gunn brought Wesley a glass of water that he got for him, it hurt. It ached because Wesley’s insides were threatening to race again, to the part where this was over, where Gunn would never speak to him again.

Wesley really didn’t want to get to that part.

Not now. Not -

Gunn, being absolutely infuriatingly good, sat down then, curled up around him. And Wesley hated how much he’d needed that. How safe it felt. How much more terrifying the idea of it disappearing became.

It was overwhelming. Wesley didn’t want to be overwhelmed with that. Anything else.

He still drank the water. He still smiled shakily at Gunn, when Gunn gave him a tentative one, that one he always gives when things are bad but he’s trying to stay bright for everyone. It makes Wesley feel a touch more unsettled, right now, in this moment, in this circumstance, than it should.

“Will you stay?”

Like the kiss, Wesley didn’t imagine it happening this way. He might have pictured himself struggling, to force out the words, to come up with a decent way to say them. Maybe, Wesley could’ve imagined not saying them at all, because the idea of a negative answer might be too crippling to deal with. Especially right now.

But somehow, he’d said it. And Gunn always knows what to say back, before Wesley even knows.

Wesley expects confirmation, mostly, when he sees the way Gunn’s looking.

He doesn’t expect to get pulled up to his feet, Gunn’s arms around him like some chivalrous hero, smile brilliant for a moment before it’s tamped down, because Gunn’s eyes are busy feeling a little too much - maybe it’s the tension, that good spark Wesley can’t ever handle, but would desperately like to feel more of -

Gunn kisses the corners of his mouth, content to let Wesley’s lips chase him, belated, not prepared because his mind was busy chasing bad futures. “C’mon.”

Wesley lets himself get dragged to his own bedroom, wonders what's going to happen - then reminds himself the hollow sharpness might come back, might overshadow his nervous butterflies again - and so he makes himself content with not knowing.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gunn ends up saying, in between getting them to the bed, and hitting Wesley with a pillow, smiling too big, looking prettier than anyone has a right to.

Wesley opens his mouth up to say something, but in the distracted instant it takes him to end up grabbing his own pillow to pay Charles back, the man is cutting him off again.

“Just cause you’re in a rush.” It’s the first time in a while Wesley catches what he thinks is Gunn leaving part of himself, inside. Usually, it’s about other things in his life. Not Wesley.

Wesley forgoes caring, about certain things, then - like what’s proper, or what Gunn might expect from him, or what another person might - and gets on his knees and grabs Gunn and pulls him down ridiculously. Wesley knows he looks like a fool, his hair messed up, much less charming grin lighting up his own face, as he pulls Gunn until he’s lying on the bed. Wesley falls over him, pins him. He doesn’t really care that Gunn’s face is half in a pillow, that Gunn can hardly move his hands.

Wesley cares, maybe, a bit more, when those struggling hands try to grab his own arms, and pin him instead.

And then they’re wrestling, and they’ve done this before - and it feels just like all those times. It’s not like the tension, that good, warm dizzy kind, wasn’t always there for Wesley. It’s more of the same, when it comes to Gunn. It’s good, like always - and Charles does get the upper hand, then, and straddles him, grinning like a fool himself.

Wesley leaning up and yanking Gunn down to kiss him is new. It’s new, and feels just as good, just as right - Gunn is laughing into it, then grabbing at Wesley’s ass teasingly. Wesley finds himself grinding up, liking the dark look he finds staring back in answer.

“It’s gonna take a lot to get rid of me, Wes,” Gunn says, before pulling insistently at Wesley’s shirt, trailing kisses dangerously across Wesley’s chest, down his stomach. It’s unnerving, and perfect, and Wesley’s all lit up again in the best way. Only the best way.

“It better.” Wesley wants to pull Gunn up and kiss him again, desperate, get lost. He wraps his legs around Gunn instead, squeezes, tries to get the man to take the hint.

 

\---

 

The next day, Gunn is still jumping at the chance to cut him off, inviting himself into Wesley’s life before Wesley gets the chance to ask.

It’s unnerving. Because Wesley doesn’t expect it, doesn’t know how to handle it. He doesn’t know how people are supposed to, not really. He’s always the one handling things. He always thinks he knows how it’s going to go.

Wesley is glad that what he thinks, hasn’t caught up to Gunn. Sometimes it’s okay not to be in control. Sometimes, life can still surprise you.


End file.
